Chapter 6: Alone in the Dark ---------------------------- Malia stood in front of her executioners, back to a water canal which carried out the waste of the city-citadel of Doma. They were deep in the catacombs now, away from the sensitive noses of Imperial higher-ups. Malia stared at the soldiers, who stared back. She was still wearing her old uniform. Not really what I wanted to be buried in, she thought. A futile, final attempt at lightheartedness. As the soldiers raised their guns, Malia thought about what she would have done differently if she went 'round her life again. Maybe she should have settled down, married some... Paul? Letting out a savage (and confusing) roar, the soldier on the far left threw her autocrossbow towards her. With lightning-fast instincts, she caught it, snapped it out, shot the leader in the chest, and ducked. Bolts began to fly everywhere as the rookie Imps found themselves short a leader, and up a turncoat. Chaos reigned. "Oh, joy," said Malia to herself, "I love chaos." But she knew when the lights went out she was effectively out of the fight. "Run, you idiot!" she heard Paul shout, before seeing him fire at another soldier. She ducked down the side passage, but not fast enough. A compact electric current slammed its way into her shoulder, and she heard herself scream in rage as her skin burnt, but she kept running. All she could hear was Paul shouting, fading into silence. * * * An hour later, Malia was hurting, hungry, tired, and her bladder was sending threat letters to her brain. These darkened, fetid tunnels seemed to be bigger than the city above them, going on forever, a dark nether-world composed of stone tunnels and rotting canals, some still carrying Kefka's fatal legacy. She wondered briefly if she had somehow stepped over into the Shadowlands, or if she really had died back there, and this was hell. People had always told her what a bad little girl she was. Malia reached a spot where four tunnels met. Two of them were blocked of by fallen rock, one was a dead end after five metres. This place was strange, though. The air was warmer here, more breathable; there was hay strewn about on the rock floor. Malia was so exhausted, she no she could go no further now. She gathered hay in a corner of the intersection, and lay down on it. This place scared the hell out of her, but despite the fear, she soon cried herself to sleep. * * * Paul burst into his quarters onboard the Chimaera. After retreating out of the underground ahead of the confused soldiers, he had dumped the private's uniform and armor in an empty closet and all but ran back here. He didn't think anyone recognized him, or even knew him, but one officer was dead, and one or more of his soldiers were hurt; _someone_ would pay for it. He glanced at the clock on the wall: he was due on in fifteen minutes. No time for a bath, with the conditions on even an elite airship, (not the Chimaera) but he should change into his other uniform, masking the sweat and adrenaline somewhat. Slowly, the enormity of his actions dawned on him. He had endangered his career, and his life, for- *A friend -* - a deserter and a thief. Paul waved a hand in front of his eyes, and blinked. Before he left for his shift, he said a silent prayer to the Goddesses, or Gaia, or whoever was running the Head Office, hoping he wasn't in love. * * * Malia was flying again. Her plane skimmed over a beautiful landscape; forests and pristine lakes, leading towards the beautiful sea in the distance. Her plane was different now, though: it was no longer the battered old Imperial fighter; it was longer, sleeker, a silver dart whose forward-swept wings swinging it through the air like a grand falcon; Malia could *feel* the plane around her: for the first time in her life, she was really flying, free and happy. She saw others sweep up around her. One was Paul, the other Cyrus, a third a woman she didn't recognize, but somehow knew well. They flew together, riding the wind. Suddenly a shadow fell over the landscape. A giant, sinister flying fortress which was more than a Defiant, or the Black Prince she had heard mentioned. It was an antithesis of light, a streamlined conglomeration of tortured metal and living flesh, and it was *moving*; it was descending on the land below, and Malia knew that nothing that touched that thing could ever be untainted. She looked up into it as it closed in on her plane, suddenly alone, the sky black, the ground invisible. And as she stared into the black depths, she saw a face beginning to form...